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I cradle it in my hands. It fits nicely between my small, 6 year old palms. It’s a Kinderegg and it’s all mine.

I’m too absorbed in my prize to notice the TV playing old Tom & Jerry cartoons or the plastic bags rustling in the kitchen as my mom puts away the rest of the groceries or even my sister next to me with her own Kinderegg. All that exists now is my small egg and my great pleasure in possessing it.

I begin to meticulously peel the wrapper, half white and half orange, careful not to rip the thinner-than-paper foil material. The crinkle echoes through my ears as I reveal the treat, releasing the sweet aroma of milk chocolate. I feel saliva pour down to form a pool at the front of my mouth. I swallow and inhale deeply, letting the simple chocolate smell flood my nose.

I set the now wrapper-free chocolate oval aside on the yellowish wood table, glancing at it sideways with desire. It rocks back and forth on its curves in large, gentle movements before coming to a rest. I return to the wrinkled wrapper, this time upside down so the shiny, silver side reflects light up at me. I tenderly smooth it out with the pads of my two index fingers, careful again not to rip it. The telltale sharp sound of the foil says that it has just ripped once in the middle of the top edge, just barely, (I always rip it, always just barely) and I pull my fingers back quick to stop the damage. I treat it like a boo-boo, caressing the spot with my finger to flatten the foil, bringing the sides of the tear together to make it nearly invisible. All better. I finish the flattening job as best I can. Suddenly the wrinkled wrapper isn’t so wrinkled any more. It’s not as pretty as fresh, untouched foil, but I have made progress. I smile at a job well done.

Now back to my delicious treat. I pick up the egg. It’s light, delicate, and hollow, and I know if I hold it with too much pressure, it’ll cave in or be dented. If I shake it, I can hear my surprise banging against the inside chocolate walls inside its plastic case. I must only shake it gently, though, or else I might damage the chocolate shell. There’s a line going from the top of the egg to the bottom and back around to the top. This is where I break it apart, preserving both halves and revealing the white chocolate inner walls. Thud, goes the thin yellow plastic capsule with the surprise inside as it hits the table, thanks to the force of gravity.

For a second time, the egg, now broken in two, is placed aside, this time for me to expose the secret toy inside. The fact that candy can hide toys inside should probably be the Eighth Wonder of the World. The thumb-sized yellow cylinder with circular pieces on the top and bottom, reminiscent of Legos (and they are stackable like Legos, too), comes apart easily at the middle with a little pressure from my fingers and a pull in opposite directions. Much to my excitement, tiny plastic pieces, the kind you keep away from babies, fall out and scatter over a small area below my hands, clinking lightly against the table, music to my ears, along with a small sheet of shiny assembly instructions. This time I’ll be making a car. The toys inside aren’t always unassembled; sometimes there are little statues. I keep everything I’ve ever gotten from my Kindereggs. The paper shows me how to stick certain pieces together, fitting some into holes on another or, in other cases, pushing them together until they click. My car is only three pieces, one on top of the other on top of the other. The wheels are already attached. I push down on the finished product with my pointer finger and drive it back and forth a short distance, then propel it forward. I leap out of my seat, slamming my hands on top of it, to prevent an untimely death of the imaginary passengers off of the table and against the hard tile floor. Close one.

I return to the egg halves, picking one up taking a small bite from the narrower end. The milk-chocolate-white-chocolate blend is heavenly and the thin piece of chocolate readily melts into creamy goodness against my tongue. Mmm.

It was a Kinderegg and it was all mine.